Tundra
by Green Aquarium
Summary: You wouldn't have stolen that box if you'd known it would teleport her away from this earth. Now life feels so cold and isolated without her.


"Alright, if it will make you happy, I'll see what's inside."

Her frame surrounded by a blinding flash of colored light is the last you see of her as some kind of magic, some anuran wizardry, takes her away from you.

Flabbergasted, you pick up the music box and reopen it. Nothing happens. You open and reclose it a dozen times, with each motion getting more panic-stricken in the head. It has to be some kind of prank, a joke, a mistake. A nightmare. As it hits you what just occurred your mouth turns dry and your body becomes gelid. You say her name loudly, repeatedly, desperately, expecting a response you know won't come. The tears only start as the two of you speed back to the store, racing faster than you've ever run before in your young life.

You frantically scream at the befuddled clerk at the counter, whatever customers are left, anybody within earshot, sounding like a maniac as you cry and rant about this fucking box took your friend. Yelling even louder than the sirens when the cops appear, followed shortly after by everyone's parents. Yelling until your voice is unbearably scratchy and your throat intolerably raw.

Anne is now labeled a missing person by the authorities, and despite all the pleading by the countless adults who question you endlessly about the topics of abduction and runaways, you can't be coaxed to say some nonexistent truth. You and Marcy stand by your story, even though it raises an eyebrow from everybody. "Trauma-related delusion," they all murmur, thinking you can't hear them.

You stay home from school, rarely getting out of bed, barely eating for days. Life feels hollow and dead, as though some organ was stolen from you and you're slowly passing away without it. Even in spring's balmiest days, it feels as though you're in the frigid Far North. The good times with Anne replay in your head, looking and sounding like videotape in your memory, it's all you can think of.

You catch a headline about the "missing thirteen-year-old" while idly scanning the paper in the kitchen. For most readers it's just another news story they'll forget in a few hours. For you, it's the end of your life and hers as well.

And you hope against hope that's she'll return, show up casually one day on your doorstep as she always did, and that this hurt will just fade away like the bad memories it deserves to be. But you're more of a realist than most would credit you for.

Obviously, the Boonchuys are taking the whole ordeal quite difficultly. But you never really comprehend how badly it hurts them until your mother thinks it will do you some good to talk to them. Visiting Anne's now incomplete house is something you dread. You don't even want to drive past it. Trying not to break down (again), you nervously ring the doorbell, signaling your arrival.

The Boonchuys have sad faces, but they still try to smile warmly at you as they invite the two of you inside for tea. You could never stand the stuff, but you drink it to be polite. The conversation feels awkward as if you're children rehearsing a play. Then it all spills out. You apologize, blame yourself, beg for forgiveness you think you don't deserve. If it hadn't been for your actions, you reason, she'd still be there.

Silence. Then Anne's mother calmly walks to up and envelops you with her arms.

"It's not your fault. It never was."

You wish your mom hadn't brought you here, maybe it would be easier to have avoided the whole miserable scene.

You and Marcy grow more attached to each other through your shared pain. She's your rock, your anchor, the one you tell things that you just can't anybody else. How you wish Anne was still around so you could hug her, and tell her that you'll never leave her side. How you wish you could kiss every inch of her caramel skin and have every conversation that you can fathom with her.

One day at her house, her family away on a business trip, Marcy wants to show you something important and secret. She opens her closet door.

"Marcy? You took it?" You'd barely thought about it since that day so many weeks ago.

"Well, I do have a problem with stealing," she jokes. "I…we need it. If it was her way in, then maybe it's her way out."

You're wordless for a good minute.

"Thank you for taking care of her…" is all you can manage to get out as she places it back in the closet. You grab her hand, taking her by mild surprise.

"Marcy… can I… can I just?" you angle your head to hers and close in until your lips meet. She doesn't resist, in fact, she seems to enjoy it more than you. Your faces part.

"You, um… you want to… you know?" she asks abashed, seeming to try to avoid eye contact as she rubs the back of her neck.

"Yes. I really can't imagine it with anybody else..." you confess to her, your faces both embarrassed shades of red and pinks.

You nervously climb into bed with her. She's everywhere. She surrounds your body, strokes your hair, and whispers everything you want to hear into your ear as your head is flooded by thoughts of her and Anne and how amazing they both are. When the two of you are done, she turns off the light and returns to you.

"I'm not leaving you…", she says knowing just what's on your mind, "I'm here. I'll always be here."

She rests her tired head upon your chest. You imagine Anne lying next to the two of you, her arms around you in a protective warm embrace.

For a moment, as you shut your eyes, it didn't hurt so bad.


End file.
